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Editor’s note: Just when we thought we'd seen every possible permutation on “Snow White,” Marsheila came along with this dark yet strangely lighthearted take on the old classic. We think you’ll see why we were delighted by this story. Enjoy! The witch checked her basket one last time before approaching the cottage in the woods. The apple on top was plumper, redder, and shinier than all the others, making even her mouth water. She pulled the gingham back over the fruit as she reached the cottage door and knocked timidly, settling into her guise. A young girl soon opened the door. She had corpse-pale skin, moondark hair, and lips like clotted blood, features no mirror would ever call fair. “Yes?” “Hello, dearie! I am selling these lovely apples, the finest—” the witch began, her voice crackling with illusory age as she uncovered her wares. The girl’s eyes lit up with hunger. “I’ll take the whole basket!” the girl interrupted, disappearing back inside for a moment and returning with a small pouch. “This should be more than enough to cover it,” she said, flashing the neck open to show a sparkle of diamonds. “Why, yes, but—” the witch began again, flustered, but the girl snatched the basket away and shoved the pouch into her hands in its place. “No time, grandmother. Be careful in the woods. There are wolves about.” And with that, the girl slammed the cottage door and was gone. The witch stared at the closed door, flummoxed. This was not how she had envisioned her encounter with her runaway stepdaughter taking place. Still, if it got the job done…. She pressed her ear to the door to listen. There. The crunch of teeth biting into the flesh of an enchanted apple. Perfect. The witch turned and headed back into the woods, smiling as she tucked the pouch into her bodice. Soon she would be the ailing king’s only heir. And his darling daughter had just paid for—and hastened—what would be a very lavish funeral, indeed. * * * The girl watched from behind a curtained window while her stepmother disappeared amongst the trees. Had the old bat really thought she wouldn’t be recognized, or that her peddler’s disguise would hide her true identity from one who knew her so well? One to whom she had taught the same tricks of illusion, once upon a time? She had tasted the flavor of the other woman’s magic immediately, and spit out the bite of fruit the moment the witch was out of earshot. This wasn’t the first time the witch had tried to kill her, and it wouldn’t be the last, and one of these days, the girl would fail to soften the huntsman’s heart or detect the hint of poison, and then what? She’d be dead, and all for a kingdom that hated her because she was not, and had no desire to be, her mother. The girl eyed the basket of apples on the low table, topped by the one she’d bitten into, its flesh already browning. It did seem a shame to let her all her stepmother’s effort go to waste…. * * * That night, when the girl’s companions returned home from the mines, carrying bags of uncut gemstones and hunks of golden ore to add to the hoard already stored in their ever-expanding root cellar, she served them vegetable soup, acorn flour bread with goat butter, and mugs of that same goat’s milk. She watched them eat, longing as always for the taste of red meat, but the brothers were strict vegetarians. The one whose snoring kept her up most nights sloshed soup out of his bowl with every spoonful. The one who thought himself a jester regaled the stupid one with poorly-told jokes they all knew by heart, and acted offended when one or another of his brothers would blurt out the punchline prematurely. The sullen one glared at the one with social anxiety for some imagined slight, making the anxious one cry snotty tears into his mug. The one who was always sick coughed something wet and sticky onto the butter dish. While the girl hurried to clean it up, the one who fancied himself a healer prescribed a concoction of common herbs she knew would be fatal in that particular combination. She said nothing. When they were finished with their supper, the girl served them each a bowl of freshly made applesauce, still warm from her cauldron. She watched as they wolfed down the dessert, and obliged with a smile when they asked for more. A smile that only widened when the first one paled, the second one began to sweat, the third one clutched his stomach in pain, the fourth one began to foam at the mouth, the fifth one began to seize, the sixth one vomited into his bowl, and the seventh one, finally, began to scream. * * * The witch returned to the cottage a few days later, expecting to find the girl’s companions mourning over her lifeless body. Instead, the cottage door stood open, the sickly-sweet smell of death reaching her from across the clearing. She approached cautiously, then stood at the threshold, peering inside the silent abode. As her eyes adjusted, she could see upended chairs, scattered bowls, and bodies. Seven corpses lay about the table, innards bared with whatever had been near to hand—pickaxes, butter knives, their own black-nailed fingers—to try and remove the poison burning through them. To no avail. The witch also noted the open cellar door and a trail of spilled gold and gems. It led toward a back door, and the horse and wagon she knew without looking would no longer be hitched there. She had wanted the girl gone, to eliminate any claim the child might have to the witch’s throne. And gone she was, fled with all the riches she would ever need, someplace where the witch would have no reason to follow. She smiled. It seemed the girl had been a better student than she let on and the crafty apple hadn’t fallen far from the cunning tree. Their rivalry hadn’t ended how she’d imagined, but the witch would take it. Whatever got the job done. Marsheila (Marcy) Rockwell is a Rhysling Award-nominated poet and the author of twelve books and dozens of poems and short stories. A disabled pediatric cancer and mental health awareness advocate and reconnecting Chippewa/Métis, she lives in the desert with her family, buried under books. Image: “The Poisoned Apple,” by Wanda Gag, 1938.

If you’ve ever felt silly whilst attempting to learn the tarot, or thought about learning but fear you’ll be out of your depth, Maria DeBlassie’s new book is just the one for you. Conversations With the Tarot is a concise and interesting depiction of learning the tarot, helpful in making new learners comfortable on their own journeys. DeBlassie describes how she spent seventy-eight weeks writing a seventy-eight word description of her connection to a card that she drew every morning. Her practice of writing a word for every card for seventy eight weeks straight deepened her respect and understanding of the tarot and she takes the reader right along on a journey with her. For each of the cards, DeBlassie writes a short poem on the card itself, and then a seventy-eight word report on her insights on the card and how its representation applies to her life. Upon her drawing of the High Priestess she discusses the “divine feminine energy” of the card and how “she is one with herself and one with the world in all its aspects.” The book cultivates the reader’s relationship with the cards through the example of interpretation before any personal practice has begun. As a wary learner of the tarot myself, DeBlassie explains the cards in a way that makes them seem much less like frightening and mystical objects used only in books and movies, and more like a healthful spiritual practice applicable to everyday life. She encourages readers to “take comfort in knowing that none of us know what we’re doing when we first start developing a relationship with the tarot but, in retrospect, we see patterns emerging in terms of how we read and understand the cards.” You can find a copy HERE. Madeline Mertz is FTM's editorial intern and is a Truman State University student with literary journal experience.

Happy September Fairy Tale Friends! We're so excited to announce that The Fairy Tale Magazine's September issue is here! Tales from the Night Queen's Realm There are stories that exist where dreams become reality and reality becomes the landscape of dreams. This is the Night Queen’s landscape A place where light and shadow mingle to dance upon stardust, and the place where she weaves her stories of happiness and sorrow into the velvet fabric of forever. The Night Queen has many tales to share, and she is beckoning you to enter into her realm of Eternal Night…. This issue is packed with original fairy tale stories, poems, art, articles, and an interview with author, Alice Hoffman! FEATURING WORKS BY Ella Arrow - Amanda Bergloff - Cecilia Betsill - Tish Black Sarah Cannavo - Jayne Cohen - Sara Cleto - A.J. Cunder Sofia Ezdina - Alyson Faye - Hannah Grace Greer Kelly Jarvis - Rosanne E. Lortz - Leila Murton Poole Deborah Sage - Marcia Sherman - Margaret Fisher Squires Laren Stover - Brittany Warman AND TO CELEBRATE, you can read the Grand Prize Winning Poem from our Poetry Contest by author Margaret Fisher Squires that's included in this September issue below! AND VERY LITTLE STONE by Margaret Fisher Squires They built the palace together. They used dreams and glass and very little stone. She did not notice the lack, distracted as she was by the motes of glamour that sparked the air around her prince. Perhaps she is not to be blamed. Perhaps he is not to be blamed either. The Fair Folk cannot help what they are. The Elf Lord quite enjoyed the playful labor. The woman’s flights of fancy matched his own as few other mortals’ had. Her dreams served for timbering and floors, fine-grained and richly hued like mahogany or teak. The pair were dazzled by their reflections in the ballroom’s mirrors. “We’ll give a ball!” he declared. She answered him, “Yes!” and he conjured fragile chairs of gilded wood, rich brocade draperies, candles of fragrant beeswax. The dainty cakes were real, with currants in them. He stole them by magic from the bakery in the nearest town. It did not seem to matter that the palace had no kitchen. Candle flames lit the ballroom and burned again in gilded mirrors, in guests’ jewels, and in his mortal lover’s eyes. Dancing with her was a joy at first. The time came when her every kiss, her every hand-brush felt like the peck of a small, hungry bird. Her eyes, bright with hope drained him. Besides, the party seemed to last almost a whole night or almost a whole year. (Despite long interludes with mortals, he still tended to confuse the two.) He knew, or believed in his fine ivory bones, that if he stayed a whole night or a whole year in one place, time would enspell him, stiffen his flesh until he was trapped in panicked immobility, an Elf Lord shaped entirely of something like mahogany or teak. Her chatter carved a numb hollow in his chest, He felt approaching dawn. He left her while the dance swirled all around them, slipping away through one of the tall glass doors into the darkness. He left her dancing with his reflection. Outside, he paused, and glanced back through the glass at the bright-eyed comely woman circling alone in her graceful dance. He heard a distant fiddle swinging into melody over the hill. He felt the music fill his chest with fire. His heels barely touched the earth as he crossed the hill but he remembered the woman for almost as many years or hours as it took for the palace’s timbers to collapse into dust. Margaret Fisher Squire’s poems have appeared in brass bell: a haiku journal, The Ryder Magazine, and the Five Women Poets’ chapbook, Birds of a Feather. Some can be heard in the archives of WFIU’s program “The Poets Weave” https://indianapublicmedia.org/poetsweave/ . You can find TALES FROM THE NIGHT QUEEN'S REALM single issue HERE and check out other past issues HERE

Editor’s note: The oddness of this poem and the seemingly random maladies listed grabbed our attention and held it. There’s a lot to think about! When hunting for fairies, always plug in your ears: the cry of a dying fairy can damage your hearing. Dry them for two weeks before you proceed by hanging them out of a window or dumping in the dark corner. Grind fairies in a mortar till a smooth mass and take orally twice a day before meals. This nostrum treats cough, arthrosis, snuffle, it breaks fears, anxiety, and nicotine breath. It eradicates fatigue, dispels anger and spleen; it drains your eyes and voice and emasculates your words. Although, as side effects, for years you’ll dream fairies’ death. But for such visions there is a good decoction on page 4. When hunting for dvergrs, do not think about your loved ones. Sofia Ezdina is an emerging writer and queer woman from Russia. She befriends stray animals and whispers eerie things. Her works appeared in Jalada Africa, FU Review and The Revelator. One of her poems was also named as a runner up for Barjeel Poetry Prize. Image: from Halloweenforum.com.

Once upon a time there was an ambitious young enchantress named Daisy Bigelow who was just finishing her internship at the enchantment firm Madame Chlorisse and Associates. Daisy had just finished her final task as an intern and hoped to become a junior associate with the firm. Confident that she had handled the case perfectly, she looked forward to her performance review with Madame Chlorisse and regarded the interview as a formality. The case had involved two young women, sisters. One had been very sweet and generous to Daisy when she appeared at the drinking well disguised as an old beggar woman who could offer her nothing in return for a drink of water. To reward the girl’s kindness, she caused diamonds and pearls to appear whenever she spoke, ensuring her a life of prosperity. Her sister had failed the same test, refusing her a drink even though it would have cost her nothing. So she caused toads and vipers to appear whenever she spoke. Confident of her success, she was confused by the icy expression on Madame Chlorisse’s face as she handed her next week’s newspaper. Daisy studied the headlines and read out loud. “Local girl mysteriously speaks diamonds, will marry prince next week.” Daisy beamed. “I’m so happy for her! Why do you look so sad, Madame?” “Some princesses find a palace to be a prison and their prince a jailor. Read on.” “Woman found dead in wood surrounded by toads. Served her right! Why are you looking at me like that?” “Remember last week’s proverb?” “An act of grace can turn a beast into a beauty, but sudden riches can corrupt an angel.” Daisy’s eyes began to water. They were both silent, and Daisy began to weep. Chlorisse took the clock from the mantle, opened the glass, and turned the hands back several times. Then said, “I believe in you, child. I’ve turned back the days. Return to the well, and we’ll see how things turn out.” Daisy waited at the well. She took the form of a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman. Eventually, a young woman approached carrying her water jug. “Please miss could you draw me out some water? I’ve lost my pitcher.” “Of course, ma’am.” Daisy drank and thanked the girl, saying she wished she had something to give her in return. “It’s all right ma’am. I’m just happy I could help.” Daisy returned every day to the well and got to know the girl. She found out that her name was Ellarose, that she had a crush on the baker’s son, and that she loved to garden. Sometimes Daisy would bring flowers or seeds to her. Ellarose, in turn, would bring Daisy books, and they’d talk about their favorite authors. One day Ellarose told Daisy that she was the best friend she’d ever had and how she blessed that day she’d asked her for a drink. Then one day Daisy found Ellarose weeping at the well and asked her what was wrong. It was the first time Ellarose had ever spoken of her family. She told of how her father had died, leaving just her and her mother and her sister Fanchelle. How they abused her and called her names and made her do all of the work and never allowed her to go out except to the well. “I can’t take it anymore. I’m running away. But I can’t bear to leave you, Daisy.” “Come stay with me. You can live in my cottage just across the wood. I think my garden would love you. I have such a black thumb.” So Ellarose and Daisy left together that very day. They passed through the woods and came to Daisy’s cottage. She saw so many beautiful plants and flowers she’d never seen before, and knew that Daisy underestimated her gardening skills. “Perhaps you can find a way to keep the slugs away.” Ellarose loved working in the garden. And even though she worked just as hard as she had at home, sometimes from sunup until late at night, she couldn’t have been happier. But Daisy had been right about the slugs. They were impossible to get rid of, and they ate almost everything. They were unlike any other slugs she’d ever known. They were the size of her hand, moved almost as fast as she walked, and learned to recognize her traps very quickly, so Ellarose used almost all of her free time devising new ways to trap them and kill them. Daisy still went to the well because Ellarose was afraid her family would see her and make her go home. One day Daisy was at the well, and a woman approached who could only be Ellarose’s sister. “I see you are tired from the walk here. Let me draw some water for you.” Fanchelle grunted a thank you, took some water, and turned home. Every day Daisy would draw water for Fanchelle getting only a grunted thanks in return. And after a few days Fanchelle began acting entitled to having Daisy draw water for her. “I can’t see that there will ever be any beauty in that one. Maybe I should just curse her and be done with it.” But being afraid to disappoint Madame Chlorisse again, she continued to draw water for the ungrateful Fanchelle. One day Daisy waited until well after sunset, and Fanchelle hadn’t arrived. Thinking she’d finally seen the last of the ingrate, she decided to leave. But then she saw Fanchelle walking hurriedly towards the well looking more unpleasant than usual. When she got there she ordered Daisy to draw water for her and to be quick about it. Daisy had had enough. “Vipers and toads! Get it yourself.” she spat. And she threw the pitcher at her and walked away. “How dare you!” Fanchelle croaked as a toad jumped from her mouth. “Get back here and draw my water!” A viper emerged from her mouth, and she ran off into the woods in fright. Daisy thought no more about Fanchelle as she and Ellarose started up a produce business that brought prosperity and health to all of the surrounding villages. Sometimes their yields were smaller because of the slugs, but they always had enough. Sometimes the slugs seemed to outsmart them, but Ellarose always found a way to control them. One market day Daisy developed a bad cold, and Ellarose had to go town with her produce. She was no longer afraid of her family, so she set off with her goods. Halfway through the woods, she spotted a woman lying on the ground surrounded by toads. She got out of the wagon and went over to her. She recognized her sister at once. She thought she was dead at first, but a flicker of her eyelids told her otherwise. All of the memories of how she’d been treated flooded her mind, and she turned back to continue her mission. Then, a pang of mercy made her turn back to her sister. She helped her to her feet, put her into the wagon and drove her back to the cottage where she slept for several days. Ellarose attended to her sister, and when she awoke she fed her the best soups and vegetables to help her grow strong. Soon, Fanchelle had regained all of her strength; unfortunately her temperament was the same as Ellarose had remembered, and she regretted saving her life. Fanchelle demanded her meals to be ready at certain times, complained if the flavor was even slightly off, and called Ellarose every foul name she could think of. The cottage soon became infested with vipers and toads. One day, after one of Fanchelle’s tantrums, Ellarose calmly said to her: “Fanchelle, I did not have to bring you here; I could have left you to die. Because I stopped to help you, we lost a lot of revenue and will have to sell at least twice as much produce to keep the cottage. Please request things nicely or go out into the woods. I will not have our cottage and garden overrun by toads and vipers. If Daisy were not still ill, I would drive you back to mother’s right now.” Fanchelle altered her behavior immediately because since Ellarose’s departure her mother had become unbearable, turning all of unpleasant attentions on her. She pitched in with all of the chores and spoke as sweetly as Ellarose. Market day came again, and Ellarose went to inspect the week’s harvest. Slugs had eaten all of the squash and were advancing on the cucumbers. Their prospects of keeping the cottage were diminished significantly. Fanchelle lost her temper. “Curse theses slugs!” And out jumped a toad who ate all of the slugs. The two sisters laughed and ran around the garden together yelling “Curse these slugs!” They’d found a solution to their slug problem, saved the cucumbers, brought in record profits that day, and begun to be friends. Daisy, feeling much better, smiled at them through the window. The next day a letter arrived for Daisy with Madame Chlorisse’s seal. * * * Dear Ms. Bigelow, We would like to offer you the position of Junior Associate Enchantress at the firm of Madame Chlorisse and Associates. We are much impressed by your work as an intern and by your creative use of garden slugs in the case of Ellarose vs. Fanchelle. Please contact our office at your earliest convenience to negotiate your terms of employment. We look forward to having you as part of our team. Sincerely, Madame Chlorisse Penny Jo McAllister is a US-based writer. Art by Amanda Bergloff @AmandaBergloff

“Rooted at dusty crossroads, dirt in palm.” In the opening line of The Best of Eternal Haunted Summer: A Thirteenth Anniversary Edition, poet Kim Malinowski gives a tantalizing hint of the magic in store for readers. Created in 2009 by writer and editor Rebecca Buchanan, Eternal Haunted Summer is an ezine featuring pagan, polytheistic, and witch-related writing. Embracing Greek, Celtic, Norse, Middle Eastern, and Caribbean lore, this collection showcases stories and poems of gods and goddesses, psychopomps, reptile women, necromancers, witches, fairies, immortals in disguise, monks, and even a queen bee. Settings range from ancient to modern to the future, including themes of passion, creativity, climate change, and more. As with nearly all anthologies, some writing resonated more than others with me. That being said, there’s so much to love in this collection. There are soaring, visceral poems of fierce goddesses by Sandi Liebowitz, Gerri Leen, and Steven Klepetar and sensitive explorations of loss and transition by Shannon Connor Winward and Adele Gardner. There are clever commentaries on the magical world and its rules by Elizabeth R. McClellan and Kaye Boesme, compelling tales of action and romance by Allister Nelson and Laurence Raphael Brothers, and lush, gorgeous poetry by Kim Malinowski, Dr. Sara Cleto and Dr. Brittany Warman, and Kelly Jarvis. Among the standouts are Michaela Macha’s playful Norse myth take on Poe, “The Ravens,” and Sarah Sadie’s dark, sensuous “How to Become Queen of the Underworld.” From the opening invocation to the final ride out with Colleen Anderson’s hog-riding “The Storm Witch,” The Best of Eternal Haunted Summer is a cornucopia of enchantment. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a novel that tells the story of Cinderella after the “happily ever after.” The Enchanted Press will publish it next February.

Editor’s note: What a charming story. Miriam took a truly famous fairy tale and gave it fun and unexpected twist! We love it when someone finds a new way into a well-worn tale, and the result in this story is very entertaining. Enjoy! The gilded, horse-drawn carriage came to a halt in front of the castle entrance. The King, Queen Matilda, Prince Rupert and the younger princes and princesses waited to welcome the Princess Alice. They saw a delicate foot shod in white leather hesitating on the carriage step, followed by rustling, billowing skirts, and then the princess herself emerged “Ah!” they breathed. For she was almost supernaturally beautiful. Hair of a blond almost silvery; smooth and glowing pale skin, olive-black eyes under arched eyebrows. There was a glow about her. She advanced and dropped deep curtseys in front of the King and Queen. Prince Rupert gaped, recovered himself, and bowed. His brothers and sisters bowed or curtsied in turn. The King took her arm with a proprietary air, and led her forward into the castle. The Queen observed Rupert’s bewildered air. He was half smitten already. “We shall see,” she said. At dinner, Alice ate only a slice of soft white cheese and a couple of figs, refusing wine and asking for linden-flower tea. “I’ve never been a very big eater,” she said, apologetically. But she was a good conversationalist, talking wisely and wittily—and a good listener too. Everyone was enchanted with her. Rupert drew her aside after dinner to talk privately before everyone retired for the night. The Queen Mother left the great hall to give the maids some orders. The King, who’d regaled Alice with some of his well-worn stories, reluctantly left the young people alone. “You must know that my parents are pressing me to marry,” Rupert said. Alice said, “I appreciate your directness, Prince. And you must know that my parents are putting me forward in hopes of uniting our kingdoms through marriage.” “I like you,” Rupert said, pulling his chair closer. “All other princesses I’ve interviewed have—not pleased me.” He looked deeply into her black eyes, whose contrast with her blondness gave him a small thrill. “Oh yes, you’re famously picky. But for this to work, I must like you, too, Prince Rupert.” Alice gazed back at him steadily, confident in her worth and beauty. She patted down a yawn, for it was late, and she’d traveled far that day. The Queen Mother appeared, with a maid behind her. “You must be exhausted, Princess,” she said kindly. “Stella here will show you your room.” Alice took her leave with soft goodnights, and followed the maid to her room. “Everything she does is so graceful,” Rupert said to his mother, following Alice’s exit with his eyes. “She’s so proud, yet so delicate. Other women I’ve met look coarse, compared to her.” “We shall see,” said Queen Matilda. Alice appeared at breakfast next morning looking tired. Her eyes had dark shadows under them, and she yawned a few times. “Didn’t you sleep well, my dear?” asked the Queen, handing her a dish of porridge. “Thank you, ma’am, I would like only milk and a little fresh fruit,” said Alice, looking at the steaming dish. “I’m sorry to say that I could hardly sleep at all. Despite the lovely soft mattresses and feather comforters, there seemed to be something hard underneath them. Look, I’m all bruised.” She extended a lovely bare arm, which sure enough, showed several blue bruises. “Heavens,” said the Queen, “How very sensitive you are! I confess, my dear, that I placed three hard-boiled peas under the bedding. Only a true-blooded princess would have felt them. Now,” she said to Rupert, who was stirring sugar into his porridge, “You may marry Alice, if she agrees.” Rupert put his spoon down and took Alice’s hand across the table. “And do you agree, Alice?” he said tenderly. “A funny way to propose marriage, but, will you?” Alice dropped her eyes. “Yes,” she said. But took her hand away. The Queen noticed that any little pressure on the flesh seemed to bother the princess. “Hm,” she thought. “We have a problem. How will she bear children if she can’t stand to be touched?” That evening, Matilda took Alice to the midwife, Ethel. Bunches of medicinal herbs hung from the roof rafters. Pots and jars stood on the worktable. Ethel came forward, taking off her apron. Matilda said, “This is the Princess Alice, soon to wed Rupert. I’ve ascertained that she knew nothing of how children are born, and furthermore, that she is so extraordinarily sensitive in her body that she won’t be able to sustain her wifely duty. In bed,” she clarified. Alice, uncomfortable, explained that when she was born, a fairy blessed her with great beauty and sensitivity. As for children, her mother had told her that a stork brings babies in the night and puts them under the cabbages in the garden. Matilda rolled her eyes at Ethel. “Do you understand? I had to educate her in the ways of men and women. Most embarrassing. Now, can you lift the spell off her?” “I can, Your Majesty,” Ethel said, “But,” turning to Alice, “Some of your beauty will fade. Are you prepared for that?” Alice was tired of looking for a husband, and Rupert looked like a good prospect. She decided to risk it. Ethel held her hands and chanted over her, then sat her down to eat a large chickweed salad laced with a garlicky dressing. Chickweed is first cold, then becomes hot, she explained. It will melt your coldness. And garlic cleanses body and soul. When Alice had eaten her fill, Ethel massaged her with oil of roses, leaving her relaxed from head to toe. And sent her to bed. Alice awoke next morning after a restful night. Her mirror showed her still beautiful, although the silvery glow about her had vanished. Yet she was comfortable in her body as never before. Rupert hung over her every word and movement at breakfast. She blushed, and returned his hot glances with caressing looks of her own. “Hungry?” he asked her. “I could eat,” she admitted. “Pass the porridge, please. Miriam Kresh is an American ex-pat living in Israel. She writes about the ecology in the Middle East and culinary culture. Image by Eugenio Recuenco.

Not That Kind of Ever After is a romance about the world of online dating. The protagonist, Bella Marbie, dreams of being a writer and finding a husband. A self-described hopeless romantic, she wants “what all those Disney princesses had before the producers and writers got better…a good old-fashioned man to sweep [her] off her feet and make [her] feel like royalty.” While Bella’s parents were high school sweethearts and her best friend Ellie is engaged to be married, Bella struggles to find her prince charming. She finally resorts to using a “Mirror Mirror” dating app that features the tag line “because the fairest of them all should be the right one too.” The novel opens with a steamy scene between Bella and one of her dating app matches, a man named Charles Wolf. Bella begins to document her lackluster dating experiences online, using chapter titles that correspond to the fairy tales she feels caught in. For example, her experience with Charles is titled My Night with The Big Bad Wolf). Her posts grab the attention of many readers which leads to some success in her writing career. The book is riddled with overt fairy tale references as Bella navigates a world that seems anything but romantic. Although I enjoyed the way Luci Adams wraps her narrative in fairy tale references, this book seems intended for a new adult audience who has some experience with the world of contemporary online dating. There are a few fun plot-based surprises and a happily-ever-after arc which provides closure to Bella’s adventures, but the book is not designed to offer any complex commentary on fairy tale messages. Not That Kind of Ever After might be a fun late summer read for those interested in the world of online dating. You can find the book here. Thank you to NetGalley for a free copy of the book in exchange for a fair review. Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University.

Hello Enchanted Friends: First, we want to thank everyone who participated in our first fundraising contest. We received so many fantastic submissions that the final decisions were extremely difficult! Below are the chosen authors for FTM's Flash Fiction & Poetry Contest for 2023: FLASH FICTION Grand Prize Winner Ella Arrow Runners Up Tish Black Katie Jordan POETRY Grand Prize Winner Margaret Fisher Squires Runners Up Cecilia Betsill Deborah Sage Look for their stories and poetry to be featured in the upcoming "Tales from the Night Queen's Realm" issue of FTM due out on September 1st!

Editor’s note: What fun this story is! You’ll see so many favorites alluded to in this delightful tale, which is filled with charming details. Enjoy! The old woman walked into her garden and breathed in the fresh air. The morning was as perfect as they come. The sun was rising over the horizon into the clearest of clear blue skies. The birds were singing and flitting from branch to branch in the trees that billowed out around the edges above her garden. She stopped to admire the flowers and the tiny tomatoes and the sage that were peeking up at the early morning sun. She was very pleased at how her garden was coming along. Her apple tree was filled with shiny red apples that were ready for the picking. She gathered a few and took them inside. There were many ways to use apples. She had a special order for one in particular. The Queen of a neighboring kingdom had ordered it herself. The old woman prepared it in the way that the Queen had asked. Cursed. Poisoned. She hated to do it, but she had bills to pay. But there were standards to keep. She made the apple to order, but with a cure. True love’s kiss. It was a longshot, but she had to do something for the poor girl who was going to have to eat the apple. And the extra magic would be undetectable by the Queen. She was a horrible woman anyway, so adding a touch of love would never be noticed through all of the venom and hatred that filled that particular Queen’s heart. She put the apple in a small bundle and took it outside. A large black raven with cloudy white eyes stood on her porch, waiting for the apple. She held up the bundle and the bird dropped a few coins in a small leather bag from his mouth at her feet. She handed him the apple bundle and the bird took it and flew off towards the east and back to the horrible Queen. It was a terrible thing to need money. She checked her to-do list and found the next task to be only slightly more to her liking. She had a request to create a cursed rose, to help to teach a handsome but nasty prince a lesson. It was a task asked for by a friend who had been treated badly by the rude and disdainful prince. She once again made a cure for the curse, by request this time. And once again, true love was the cure. She sent the rose off to her friend using a rabbit as her messenger. It didn’t have far to go to take it to her friend, and she thought it would be nice to get rid of the pesky little fellow for a while. She needed to gather some of the vegetables and herbs from her garden while he was away. The old woman spent some time in her garden and then some time cleaning up the inside of her house. She wanted things to be in good shape for when she returned home later that evening. The young girl that she had her eye on needed some help tonight, and it was always lovely to come back home to a clean hearth and home. Especially when it was filled with the wonderful aromas of fresh herbs drying in front of the kitchen window. When the time came, she gathered the things she needed and headed out to the young girl’s house. When she was sure that the girl’s stepmother and stepsisters were gone, she headed inside to talk to the girl. The old woman found her crying beside the fireplace, all covered with ash and soot. The old woman sat beside her and spoke encouraging words to the girl. She took her by the hand and led her outside. It took some creative thinking, but soon a pumpkin was a carriage, some brave mice volunteered to be horses, and the girl’s shabby dress became a beautiful ball gown. The old woman pulled out a pair of glass slippers. Which, of course, was the most important part of the entire evening. She had spent a huge amount of time on them, making sure that the enchantment was exactly right. The shoes had to be a perfect fit, and that kind of magic took time and patience. The girl was given her instructions and the old woman sent the girl on her way to the ball at the castle. She waved at the carriage as it headed down the road and then dusted off her dress and decided to call it a day. She was tired from all the magic she had to prepare that day, and she wasn’t happy with all of the jobs that had to be done. She was happy, however, to end the day on a nice note, knowing the sweet and lovely girl would be the one to become the queen of her particular kingdom. When the old woman went home, the pesky rabbit was already back in her garden, helping himself to a little dinner as a reward for his errand that day. She let him be and headed back inside. She put a kettle on the fire to make some tea and headed into her bedroom where she found a surprise waiting for her. A hungry wolf was waiting for her, wearing her nightgown, and moments later, she heard her granddaughter knock on the front door. It had been a long and busy day, and the old woman decided that she was not going to be eaten by a wolf. She was thoroughly annoyed by the wolf’s interruption, so she used her magic to change the wolf into a cat and picked him up and carried him out the back door. She tossed the wolf, who was now a cat, into the pig pen with her three piglets and went back inside to answer the door. It had been a while since she had seen her granddaughter, and she had a beautiful red cloak waiting for her. Born and raised in California, Judy now lives in Arizona with her husband and Giant Schnoodle, Amos. She writes with dyslexia and a chronic illness (Meniere’s Disease) and is a breast cancer survivor. She writes mostly fantasy stories and novels, and has been published in Promises in the Gold anthology. Image :“The Fruits of the Earth,” by Edward J. Detmold.

Make a wish. The moon’s words haunt Rashmi, even nineteen years after she missed the crucial opportunity to change her fate. She can never forgive herself for her failure on the night her mother died. Ever since then, she has embraced her grandfather’s mantra of science over magic. Desperate to somehow make things right, she throws herself into her studies and later her work as a Mumbai researcher, never allowing even her devoted boyfriend Darsh to get too close. But when she discovers a rare book of poetry featuring the Moon Garden, the very fable her mother used to tell her, Rashmi dares to hope she might have a second chance. Into the Moon Garden by Shveta Thakrar follows Rashmi and Darsh into a place of breathtaking beauty and dangerous bargains. Because, of course, even the smallest wish on a shining moon blossom comes with a corresponding price. Rashmi has her eyes on the costliest flower of all: the Silver Lotus. And she must have more than just her wits about her; it is her heart and soul she must summon if she is to get what she wants most. Thakrar’s Audible Original novella alternates Rashmi’s story with passages from The Many Faces of the Moon, a collection of tales of moon goddesses and gods from cultures all over the world, set to an addictive piece of music. I loved hearing these different myths, most of which were new to me. The Moon Garden, as brought to life in Thakrar’s luminous prose, is an exquisite world, and Bollywood movie-star Darsh is such a match for Rashmi it is almost difficult to see why she insists on keeping him at arm’s length. And yet the most compelling part of this story is Rashmi herself. She is complex, conflicted, and heartbreakingly human, and I related to her in an intensely personal way. Imaginative, evocative, and deeply moving, Into the Moon Garden is a journey not to be missed. Lissa Sloan is the author of Glass and Feathers, a novel that tells the story of Cinderella after the “happily ever after.” The Enchanted Press will publish it next February.

Editor’s note: We are fortunate to have Kelly Jarvis as our Special Projects Writer here at EC. She has enormous talent as a fiction writer, and, as you see in this essay, is just as talented at nonfiction. And who doesn’t love reading all about “Little Red Riding Hood”? Follow the links. They add the the richness the experience of reading this essay. Everyone knows the story of “Little Red Riding Hood.” Although the tale has never been made into a feature-length Disney film, we all remember hearing about the red-hooded girl who meets a wolf while carrying a basket of sweets to Granny’s house. Even the famous Victorian writer Charles Dickens was a fan of the fairy tale, writing, “She was my first love. I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding Hood, I should have known perfect bliss.” The popularity of “Little Red Riding Hood” makes it the perfect opening text for my first-year college writing course titled Once Upon a Time. My students know the story from the PICTURE BOOKS of their childhood, have encountered it in FILM, and have recognized the plot in TELEVISION COMMERCIALS, but they believe that the “original” version of the story comes from THE BROTHERS GRIMM. The Brothers Grimm are as famous as the stories they told, but, like Little Red Riding Hood herself, their history is more complicated than my students initially understand. JACOB AND WILHELM GRIMM were scholars who collected and published oral folk tales to “preserve the cultural history of Germany,” but rather than scouring the countryside to capture the peasant voice, they collected many of their stories in middle class drawing rooms and altered details to better reflect their 19th century Christian morality. They edited their anthology, Kinder-und Hausmarchen, several times between 1812 and 1857, removing sexual details and adding violent punishments for evil actions. It is the Grimm’s story LITTLE RED CAP which features the heroic woodsman who saves a penitent protagonist that my students recognize. Of course, the history of “Little Red Riding Hood” extends far beyond the Grimms with variants from cultures all around the WORLD. My students are surprised to learn that an early oral variant recorded by the French folklorist Paul Delarue in Brittany in 1885 is titled “THE STORY OF GRANDMOTHER,” and features cannibalism, a striptease, and a plucky hoodless heroine who saves herself from the wolf. They are shocked to discover that the French writer Charles Perrault, who published the earliest literary version of the tale, “LE PETIT CHAPERON ROUGE,” in 1697, uses the story as a cautionary tale against elicit sexuality, allowing the girl he famously cloaked in RED to die in bed with the wolf, and warning his audience that “tame wolves are the most dangerous of all.” It is not without spirited debate that my students accept their cherished childhood story stems from a bawdy sexual tale first directed toward adults, but with the help of Tex Avery’s RED HOT RIDING HOOD and Johnny Depp’s HELLO, LITTLE GIRL from INTO THE WOODS, they soon learn that fairy tales shape and reflect the generational and cultural beliefs of the times and places they are told. Once my students come to terms with the sexual messages of the story, they are ready to explore complex retellings written by Anne Sexton, CAROL ANN DUFFY, and Angela Carter. Carter’s haunting story, “THE COMPANY OF WOLVES,” poses a feminist solution to the protagonist’s trouble by presenting a “strong-minded child” who embraces her sexuality and chooses not to be afraid at the crucial moment of attack. The story also reaches deep into the history of the tale type to explore the construct of the WEREWOLF, collapsing the wolf and the hunter, the predator and the savior, into one. Her text makes my students curious about the evolution of both the girl named for her fashionable headwear and the shapeshifting VILLAIN of so many folktales and stories. While the history and characters of every fairy tale we study are important, the real reason I begin the semester with “Little Red Riding Hood” is because of the famous exchange between the girl and the wolf disguised in grandmother’s nightgown. Variations of the dialogue feature in most “Little Red Riding Hood” stories and often unfold with the girl saying “Oh, Grandmother, what big eyes you have!” followed by the wolf reassuring her “All the better to see you with.” The dramatic irony of this scene sensitizes us to a crucial moment in the story. Little Red Riding Hood knows something is wrong when she enters her grandmother’s house, but she can’t define exactly what she fears. As the emotional tension builds and we dread the wolf’s inevitable attack, the girl uses her INTUITION to ask questions about her “grandmother’s” appearance, echoing the importance of listening to an inner voice that is sometimes symbolized in other fairy tales by the HEART. Asking questions, even when we don’t yet know the answers, is the foundation of academic study. Although some criticize Little Red Riding Hood for her ignorance, she is an excellent example of the inquiry-based learning I hope my students will embrace. When my students write their final class reflections, they often share that they see themselves in the character of Little Red Riding Hood. At the beginning of each semester, they sit quietly, waiting for me to tell them what to think and how to write. They journey through a class where assignments cluster like foliage beneath their feet and assessments reach out to trip them like the black branches of sinister trees. With perseverance, intuition, and a little help along the way, they become independent scholars who ask their own questions and find important answers by looking beneath the surface of literature. My students are surprised to encounter fairy tales in college, but once they discover the depth of these simple stories, they are ready to make observations and ask questions about every text they read and every situation they encounter as they move through the University and their lives. Everyone knows the story of “Little Red Riding Hood,” but it is more than a simple children’s tale. Its rich history sharpens our intuitive eyes, making them all the better to see with as we search for hidden meanings and discover the dangerous and beautiful truths embedded beneath the surface of our shared humanity. Kelly Jarvis is the Special Projects Writer and Contributing Editor for The Fairy Tale Magazine. Her work has appeared in Eternal Haunted Summer, Blue Heron Review, Forget-Me-Not Press, Mermaids Monthly, The Chamber Magazine, and Mothers of Enchantment: New Tales of Fairy Godmothers. She teaches at Central Connecticut State University. Image by Fleury Francois Richard.